


Ashes and Dust

by majinbun



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Dominance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Masturbation, Ok... maybe there's a little bit of plot, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-06-08 20:43:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6872659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majinbun/pseuds/majinbun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A feminine figure was silhouetted briefly by the dim light from the hallway before pulling the door shut behind her. Maxson lay still, one hand on the pistol grip as soft footsteps padded towards him. The mattress compressed on one side, then the other, and he suddenly felt a soft weight on his hips. The floral scent of pre-war shampoo permeated the air and he let go of the gun.</p>
<p>“Sneaking into dark rooms uninvited is a good way to get yourself shot.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes and Dust

Arthur Maxson was uncomfortable.

This was not a feeling that he was accustomed to having, nor one that he particularly enjoyed. In his twenty years of life, Maxson had mastered the art of reigning in and controlling his feelings. The ability to channel passion and righteous anger when necessary was a boon to anyone aspiring to leadership. However, the skin-crawling itch of awkward discomfort was not. Before the war, someone his age would barely be considered a man. But times had changed.

The source of his discomfort stood on the other side of the command deck, leaning nonchalantly against a steel support beam that also functioned as a doorway. She was ignoring the Elder completely, whispering something quietly to Danse who stood next to and more than a head taller than her. Danse’s face morphed into wide-eyed shock at whatever she had said, though hers remained cool and indifferent to his reaction. Maxson wasn’t sure if he should be concerned by this display of chumminess, but he tried to banish the thought and focus on the task at hand. Luckily, years of public speaking lessons and a natural skill for oration made it fairly easy for Maxson to finish giving his orders, despite the distraction.

Knight Harlow was in near constant violation of the Brotherhood’s uniform code. She preferred to wear clothing more suited to a common wastelander, saying it helped her remain incognito during missions. Though how she was able to conceal her Brotherhood affiliation with Danse clanking along behind her like a two-ton puppy, Maxson preferred not to imagine. Sometimes, mostly when on missions that required little travel or while ensconced in the relative safety of the Prydwen, she would don that tattered blue jumpsuit. A souvenir from her long nap in the icebox. 

Now was one of those times. And Knight Harlow’s attire was the cause for the stoic Elder’s discomfort. She had the tendency to piece together her body armor, improving it as she found better materials. And though most of the plating and pads she sported in combat had already been removed, Knight Harlow still wore a leather harness over her skin-tight vault suit.

It was obscene.

Though the Knight herself was not standing at attention, parts of her body most certainly were. A leather strap ran beneath her breasts, hoisting their already ample perkiness to even greater heights. And he could clearly make out the indentation where a tightly fastened strap cut into the meat of her inner thigh. It ran parallel to a long slash in the fabric across the thigh, the skin below was hastily knitted back together. Stimpaks never worked perfectly, after all. The jumpsuit was rather worse for wear after this latest mission, a few more endeavours and the suit would be severely lacking in substance. If Maxson didn’t reign in his appraising eyes, certain parts of his body would soon be standing at attention of their own volition.

He fixed his eyes on the nondescript Scribe in front of him, attempting to feign interest in the man’s droning report on recent technological recovery missions. The Scribe was obviously trying to inflate the importance of petty finds to reflect more favorably on himself. Maxson saw right through his bullshit.

Right through to the very thing he shouldn't be looking at. Danse must have the restraint of a saint to follow behind _that_ everyday without making a move, or getting shot due to misplaced concentration. Maybe there was more to their relationship than met the eye. After all, they were only human. 

As the Scribe paused for a breath, Maxson interrupted him, “Excellent work, Scribe. Dismissed.” 

The Scribe stared at the Elder with an open mouth, obviously having trouble coping with the derailment of his train of thought. Maxson quirked an eyebrow at the Scribe. The man quickly came to his senses and saluted. 

“Ad Victoriam, sir.”

He returned the salute with little gusto, and the man retreated up the ladder to the creature comforts of the main deck. Maxson turned his back to the other occupants of the room and surveyed the skyline out the panoramic bank of windows.

“Paladin Danse, leave us.” Maxson clasped his hands behind his back, “I'll see to your debriefing later.”

There was an audible shuffle as Danse presumably straightened himself to full height and saluted, “Yes, sir.” The elbow of Danse’s suit whined as he dropped the arm back to his side. His footsteps landed heavily against the metal floor and then ceased with a final clang of a shutting door. 

It was silent, but for the muffled hum of the engines keeping them aloft.

“Knight Harlow,” Maxson paused, waiting for an acknowledgement. He did not receive one, “At our initial meeting, I assigned you a personal storage container in the Knights’ quarters. Did I not?”

“You did, sir.” Her words seemed clipped, curt, as they always were in his presence. In everyone’s presence, really. Knight Harlow was standoffish in most company, according to character reports in her files. Danse was the exception.

“And have you made use of it?”

“No, sir.”

Maxson frowned, “So you failed to retrieve your standard-issue armor. Why did you neglect to utilize the container?”

“I had nothing that needed storing.”

He could feel his neck getting hot under the obtrusive coat collar. Vexsome woman.

“Irrelevant.” Maxson turned to face his subordinate, closing the distance to where she still leaned against the wall. He loomed over her, close enough to detect a faint floral scent that mingled with leftover sweat, “I have tolerated your divergence from the uniform code on away missions, due to their occasional covert nature. From now on, while you are aboard this ship, you will wear a uniform befitting your rank. That is an order. Failure to comply will merit disciplinary action. Do I make myself clear, Knight?” Maxson leaned away, returning to her precious inches of breathing room. 

Knight Harlow remained uncowed throughout his speech. Her eyes did not widen in shock or fear and her posture was still much too casual. She looped both thumbs underneath the shoulder straps of her harness, lips betraying the hint of a smirk.

“Crystal, sir.”

 

* * *

_Damn._

Maxson pressed his forehead against the cool, steel wall of his quarters. Blatant defiance was something he could handle, something he could discipline. But this, this was something else.

Knight Harlow held quiet disdain for his authority behind those piercing gray eyes. She had pulled the wool over Danse’s easily enough with her heroics in Cambridge and her unquestioning acceptance of his orders. But underneath the flimsy facade, she was an agent to her own ends. And he suspected the Brotherhood was nothing more than a means to get there. Maxson accepted this, as she was a valuable asset and their only way to infiltrate the Institute. But he didn’t have to like it.

In fact, he was beginning to hate it.

He hated the way she stalked about the Prydwen in silence, her eyes sliding lazily from face to face. Cold. Uninviting. He had yet to see her engage in any type of camaraderie outside of Danse. He hated her seemingly peaceful acts of insolence in her choice of attire, the distraction her latest outfit had been to the adolescent Initiates. That tepid glance up into his eyes, followed by a perfectly enunciated _Crystal, sir._ She always made a point to call him ‘sir’, never ‘Elder’.

But most of all, he hated that none of these reasons stopped him from wanting her body crushed between his own and the wall. Only in the secrecy of his mind could he admit that sheer willpower was the only thing dividing him from the gawking Initiates. 

Knight Harlow was a brewing tempest, a force on the edge of greatness. Maxson wanted that force enraptured in his sphere of influence. Unfortunately, he’d yet to devise a way to shepherd her in from the periphery.

Harlow had to be bent, broken if necessary; formed and fused to the body of the Brotherhood.

Maxson’s hand drifted to the zipper-front of his uniform and a shiver ran down his spine. He pictured her overtly casual stance, tattered clothing and all, too tight cinches gripping in all the right places. One hand fisted against the wall as he tugged down at the zipper with the other. Finally free from its textile prison, Maxson grasped his already rigid cock. Air hissed through clenched teeth as he pictured Harlow on her knees before him, pretty mouth in place of his hand. He stroked himself, eyes clenched shut and imagining what hers would look like staring up at him, submitting to him. His pace quickened at the thought, hips quivering at the vision of thrusting in and out of her mouth with one hand fisted in corn silk hair. 

His breath was ragged, hand rough against the soft skin of his member. In his mind her mouth was all warmth and wetness, tongue lapping against the sensitive underside of his cock. He could nearly feel the suction as he pictured her pulling away, breaking contact and gasping for breath. Maxson suppressed a groan and bucked into his hand. Harlow’s only purpose was to serve his needs, and he imagined his fingers twining at the nape of her neck. Pulling her back onto him, Maxson could hear soft protestations at the invasion. He could almost see her eyes grow wide, slightly panicked at the fullness of his length. 

The vivid images were banished from his mind when a terse knock came at the door. The sound reverberated through the metal walls of his quarters, and dulled the arousal coursing through his body. Maxson quickly tucked himself away, and crossed the room. Whoever dared invade his privacy had better have a damn good reason. He grabbed the doorknob with one hand and adjusted himself with the other, tucking away any conspicuous protrusions. Donning a scowl that would make an Initiate cower in fear, Maxson swung the door open with force. Standing in the hall was Paladin Danse with a sheepish look on his face.

“Reporting for my debriefing, sir.” Danse saluted loosely and glanced at a nearby clock, “It’s nearly lights out.”

Maxson dropped the sour look and motioned his best field officer into the room. Danse was the closest thing he had to a friend, if he was being honest with himself. 

“Have a seat, Paladin.” Maxson motioned to the couch. Danse moved to sit, and Maxson noticed the bottle he was carrying for the first time, “What’s that in your hand?”

“Scotch, sir.” Danse handed over the goods, “Knight Harlow salvaged it from one of the ruined shops near the police station. She says it was a good brand before the war.” 

Maxson peered down at the label, but it was too faded to make out the name. Markings didn’t seem familiar either. He did not fashion himself a connoisseur of such things, as alcohol served its purpose regardless of the vintage. 

“We thought you might enjoy it, sir.”

_We._ What an interesting development. 

“Knight Harlow doesn’t strike me as the thoughtful, gift-giving type.” Maxson moved to pull two highball glasses from a cabinet. He placed the newest bottle at the back of his collection and poured heavily from one that was already open. Maxson offered one glass to Danse and pulled up a chair, so as not to crowd the large man on his couch. Danse was formidably sized, even on the rare occasions when he removed his power armor.

“I didn’t get that impression either, sir.” Danse took a sip of his very full glass and suppressed a grimace. Maxson nearly laughed, Danse wasn’t much of a drinker, except with him. And very rarely did he indulge in spirits. But everyone’s tongue grew more honest with proper lubrication.

Danse coughed loudly, he was poorly accustomed to the burn of whiskey. Catching his breath, he continued, “Which is why it surprised me when she suggested it.”

Maxson’s eyebrows shot up, surprised, “She told you to give it to me?” Perhaps there was hope for penetrating Harlow’s icy exterior yet.

“Well, not exactly.” Danse took another sip and shuddered, “She suggested I give it to someone who would appreciate it, said that it was too rare to go to waste.”

Maxson’s frown returned. So it hadn’t been intended especially for him. Disappointing. “I see. Well, I appreciate the gesture, either way.”

The two men were silent for many seconds. Maxson downed the contents of his glass while Danse nursed the liquor slowly. 

“I would like to voice a few... concerns, sir. If I may?” Danse tapped nervously on the side of his glass. 

“You’re always permitted to speak freely in privacy.”

“Thank you, sir. I mean… Arthur.” Danse shifted in his seat, “Knight Harlow has performed admirably in every mission I’ve accompanied her on, I have no reservations on her effectiveness as a soldier. However, she has been less than forthcoming regarding her motives. I’ve refrained from prying, as I know she values her privacy. But it does give me pause when assessing her loyalty to the Brotherhood.” 

Maxson’s brow furrowed. Danse had obtained less information from Harlow than he’d hoped. Pity. 

“She made an… interesting comment to me while you were debriefing that Scribe earlier.” Danse swirled a finger around the lip of his glass. “She said that you reminded her of a man she knew once. That you were formed from the same ashes, the same dust.” He paused to meet Maxson’s gaze, which was unchanged, “I didn't have a chance to respond before you dismissed me. But she seemed sad, and somewhat more distant than normal.”

Harlow’s past was a great mystery to them both. She had successfully deflected all inquiries thus far by parroting Brotherhood rhetoric and dedication to the cause. Maxson’s interest was more than piqued at this subtle revelation. There had to be more to the story.

 

* * *

The windowless room was dark, only the faint red light from the hallway seeped under the door. The steady drone of the engines usually acted as a monotone lullaby. But Arthur Maxson lay awake in his bed, staring at the blackness of the ceiling. Today’s events, his conversation with Danse; there was far too much to think about.

_Ashes. Dust._

It had been well past lights out when Maxson had almost carried a rather inebriated Danse to his quarters next door. The big man was snoring before his body hit the mattress. After much veiled probing into the nature of their relationship, Maxson was assured that there was nothing between the Paladin and Harlow. Nothing beyond the camaraderie of a mentor and mentee, if that even. Harlow, it seemed, was a very difficult case to crack.

Maxson shifted to his side and reached down, intending to finish what had been so cruelly interrupted earlier. As soon as he’d shucked the underwear past his hips, Maxson heard the telltale click of a lock. His door opened, just a crack at first and he reached for the pistol he kept tucked carefully between the mattress and the wall. One could never be too cautious, even within the airborne isolation of the Prydwen.

A feminine figure was silhouetted briefly by the dim light from the hallway before pulling the door shut behind her. Maxson lay still, one hand on the pistol grip as soft footsteps padded towards him. The mattress compressed on one side, then the other, and he suddenly felt a soft weight on his hips. The floral scent of pre-war shampoo permeated the air and he let go of the gun.

“Sneaking into dark rooms uninvited is a good way to get yourself shot.”

He received no answer, but hot breath and the soft press of lips against the side of his neck. Maxson gasped involuntarily as slender hands slid up his bare torso and twined their way around his shoulders. Harlow was all heat and need as her body pressed fully against his, ample breasts forming to the hard muscle of his chest, heat between her legs hard to ignore. A shudder of surprised delight ran the length of Maxson’s body as he realized that she was wearing nothing but that damned leather harness. 

Harlow’s hands slid down his arms, fingernails dragging roughly, until her fingers were intertwined with his own. She held his hands in place with force, preventing him from touching anywhere that she did not allow. 

“Fuck me.” The words were soft against his ear, but it was a command in any sense of the word.

Harlow dragged her lips across his jawline and pressed a long, open-mouthed kiss to his lips, sliding her tongue languidly along their pursed length. Maxson was reticent to respond, still taking in the shock and sensation of what he was experiencing. His body was not as demure, and Maxson could feel his cock hardening against Harlow’s bare inner thigh. But her weight was oppressive, Harlow intended to use him as an object of pleasure, as a means to her own ends.

Maxson would not stand for such usurpation.

He sat abruptly, depositing his detainer at the foot of the mattress. Harlow let out a small sound of surprise at the sudden movement. Extricating himself from their tangle of legs, Maxson stood from the bed and removed his undergarments. Reaching through the darkness, he found an upper arm and hauled Harlow off the bed. 

“You repeatedly refuse to play by my rules,” Maxson pushed her towards the wall, “But I do not take orders from you, Knight.” and pressed himself against her from behind. 

Harlow made a move to turn around. He blocked it, gripping her wrists in powerful hands and placing them on either side of her head. He slid a knee in between her thighs, opening them for further exploration. Maxson’s cock twitched against her bare buttocks, he was testing the limits of his self control. And failing, as she ground her hips backwards and strained against his grip.

“You started this.” Maxson sunk his teeth into her shoulder, eliciting a cry of indistinguishable pain or pleasure, “Is it not what you wanted?”

Harlow did not respond verbally, but he could feel the goosebumps forming on her arms and the slight increase in pressure as she pressed her body into his. Maxson pressed his lips softly over where he had bitten, it was sure to leave a mark. She shuddered at the gentler touch. He released the grip on one arm tentatively, but she made no move to escape. Letting his hand fall to her hip, Maxson wrapped his hand around the leather strap he found there. He could hardly believe this was not all in his imagination, as he found similar purchase on Harlow’s other hip. Firming up his grip, he hoisted her towards him, causing the leather to bite into the soft flesh of her thighs. Harlow let out a low moan. She’d never admit it in the daylight, but he could tell she was enjoying this. 

For once, Maxson wished he’d left on some source of light. He tended to favor darkness when it came to carnal encounters, made it easier to avoid inappropriate feelings and difficult to distinguish one from another. But now he wanted nothing more than to see Harlow’s face, her reaction as he took her and made her his own. Another time, perhaps. For now he was far too invested, far too afraid she would slip away given the chance. And the lightswitch was so very far away from the warm undulations of her body.

Maxson slid one hand up her back, gripping the cross-strap between her shoulders. He yanked Harlow backwards away from the wall and used the advantage of his weight to force her to her knees. She acquiesced with little resistance. Maxson twined his fingers through her hair, applying pressure to coax her head towards him. Slowly at first, encouraging. 

The head of his cock throbbed at contact with her closed lips. Harlow pulled away and shifted under his grip. In this darkness, he could not watch as she tasted him, tentatively at first. He closed his eyes as her tongue slid along the underside of his member, tightened the fist in her hair. Maxson’s throat constricted, the low, liberated moan betraying more than he would like as she engulfed him. Harlow was not one to take things slowly, as it seems. He gripped the edge of the mattress with one hand and pulled her further onto him with the other, probing the entry to her throat. She did not protest, as he’d imagined she would. Harlow pulled away briefly, swirling her tongue around the swollen head and swiftly swallowed him whole again. She repeated this motion, growing more deliberate with each iteration. 

Maxson’s mind was abuzz with hazy pleasure. He was rapidly losing control over the situation. 

He pulled her away, her mouth making a soft, wet sound as it became suddenly vacant. She took a deep breath as he hauled her up by the shoulder straps and turned her around. Maxson’s lips curled into a smirk.

“This isn’t regulation gear, soldier.” He ran a finger underneath the strap, stroking the smooth skin of her upper back. Leaning closer, he whispered in her ear, “What did I tell you about consequences?”

Harlow shuddered at his touch. She was turning to slush in his hands.

He pulled the strap back and let it snap against her skin. “What should I do with you, Knight?” 

She inhaled sharply, though he doubted he could’ve hurt her… much. 

“Please fuck me, sir.” The plea was reluctant on her lips.

Better. He could work with that. 

Maxson pressed her onto the mattress. He ran his fingers down her back, goosebumps erupting in their wake. Her breathing was shallow, nearly panting as he slid a hand along the curve of her hip and down to grasp himself. Guiding his member, he parted her lips and slid against the length of her slit, testing, teasing. Harlow sucked in a breath, and held it for a long while. Her body stiffened at the touch which was so obviously wanted. Her cool exterior was clearly betrayed by the wetness he found at her core. He grabbed the leather strap above her ass and pulled back roughly.

One more soft whimper was enough reassurance that his advances were wanted, needed even. Maxson drove into Harlow with force, burying his cock in her heat. Fuck. The tightness, the warmth brought white lights dancing at the edge of his vision. A small, staccato noise came involuntarily from the back of her throat. Maxson held himself in place, savoring the feeling, the quick cacophony of their tangled breathing and heartbeats, the intense throbbing of his cock. She was being surprisingly cooperative, given her generally defiant nature. Maxson couldn’t help but wonder what had caused the change.

He pulled out slowly, savoring the slickness of her pussy. And then moved back in, just as lazily, listening to the erratic changes in her breathing as she took him inch by inch. Using the leather hand-holds on her hips as leverage, Maxson quickened his pace. How he wished for some meager source of light as Harlow writhed and moaned into the soft fabrics of his bed. For all her great pains to appear aloof, unattainable, Harlow oozed sex. With those full hips and rounded, turgid breasts. Breasts that Maxson had shamefully ignored.

He remedied the situation, pulling roughly at the cross-strap on her back. Maxson forced her back to be flush with the hard planes of his chest. He snaked a hand around to her front, cupping a breast and scissoring a pert nipple methodically between two fingers. Harlow clenched around him as he matched his thrusting to the rhythm of his nipple-play. She let her head fall back, nearly resting on his shoulder and leaving her neck widely exposed. Maxson took the opportunity and seized the soft flesh between his teeth, clamping down and sucking. Marking what was now his. 

Harlow let out a frantic stream of _Oh, Gods_ as he worked her body. He felt her hand drift towards her center, she intended to pleasure herself. Maxson would not stand for it. She was his to pleasure, no more her own. He seized the offending hand and gripped it in his own, holding it close to the strap at her hip. With the other hand, Maxson released her breast from his sweet torture and slid it down her torso, slick with perspiration.

_God, she was wet._ He ran fingers in the slippery cleft between her hip and inner thigh. Harlow moaned at the welcome invasion, gripping him as her involuntary muscles contracted. He rewarded her good behaviour by sliding two fingers between her wet folds. It was not hard to find her tender nub, its presence was made known as she bucked against his hand. Maxson removed his teeth from her throat and clenched them, he wasn’t going to last much longer. He swirled circles around her swollen clit and moved his other hand from her hip to her throat. 

Harlow gasped, and constricted against him once more. Her head fell forward as she used her newly freed hands to leverage against the wall, pressing her body against him. Their hips snapped and rolled together. Maxson’s fingers tightened around her neck, enough to make his dominance known, but not enough to restrict breathing. It was enough for Harlow, and she cried out as a great shudder ran the length of her body. Maxson couldn’t help but let out a blissful _goddamn_ as he felt the rhythmic contractions against his member.

Spent, Harlow slumped against his touch gasping for air. Maxson gripped a hip once more and held her in place. He quickened his movements, plunging into her taut, drenched pussy again and again. Maxson’s pace was inconsistent, his mind losing all senses but the feeling of great, warm pleasure pooling in his abdomen. Harlow keened below him, thawed completely from his corporeal attentions. She was conquered. 

And it was all too much.

Maxson drove into her core with everything he had, sheathing himself completely. The threshold burst, and he moaned at his release, cadent reverberations that travelled far through the metal walls and conduits. His peak was hot and white, all feelings at once. Searing pleasure. 

And the glorious tension was gone as quickly as it had arrived. Maxson relaxed his screaming muscles and let his weight come to rest mostly on top of the panting woman below him. Harlow wriggled away from his oppressive weight towards the empty side of the mattress nearest the wall. He allowed it, keeping her from straying too far with a hand on her hip.

They lay in silence for a long while, breathing and heartbeats returning to a normal rate. The tang of intercourse hung heavily in the air. Harlow moved to sit up, but Maxson restrained her, pulling her body against his own. 

“Don’t leave.” He pressed lips to the back of her neck.

“Is that an order, sir?”

Maxson smiled against her damp skin and tendrils of hair, “It is, Knight.”

Harlow sighed, the long, contented sigh of satiation, and settled her curves against him. She said nothing more, and he didn’t expect her to. But there was one thing he needed to know.

“Tell me about this man with whom I share ashes and dust.”

For the first time, but not the last, Maxson heard the chiming notes of Harlow’s laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Kudos/comments make my world go 'round!


End file.
